I’m Melting….

“Let’s open a store called FOREVER 39.  We can sell wine and yoga pants.”

As often as possible, I attend a yoga class.  Though I never thought of myself as the type of person who could ever achieve a zen-like state….I’m pretty wound….all the time….I have to admit that yoga does wonders for me.

When I really focus in on the practice, I can feel the stress and frustrations of the day, or week, melt away….and I get my best night’s sleep post class.  At least I did until yesterday, when I discovered that my face is falling off my head.

If you’ve ever been to a gym before, you might have noticed that the regulars tend to have a favored spot, or bike, or other piece of equipment they gravitate toward.

My gym is no different, but no one is a bitch about it.  So, when I arrived for yoga last night and found a new person in my typical spot, I just chose another, settled into Lotus pose and waited for class to begin.

My usual spot is near a half wall, that’s kind of like a long, narrow shelf.  I like it there, because I can use the wall to cheat during some of the balance poses.

My new location was directly beside a wall of mirrors that runs the entire length of one side of the gym.  I didn’t think much of it until I found myself in Prasarita Padottansana, which is a wide-legged forward bend.

We can pretend this is me….she’s OK….I guess.

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Typically, I keep my eyes closed during my practice, unless otherwise instructed to open them.  It helps me to block out the activity around me so that I can fully concentrate.

For some reason though, I decided to open them while bent over with the mirror at my back.  The first thing I noticed was that the position made my ass look like a billboard and I wondered for a moment if it would be possible to write supercalifragilisticexpialidocious across my rear.

The second thing I noticed was that my cheeks (face cheeks) appeared to be on my forehead.  It was legit frightening and after I gasped in horror, I did what women have been doing for centuries….I took a look around the room and compared myself to the other women.

This was only moderately helpful, since I was flanked by two, fresh faced twenty-somethings.  But, I did notice that a few other ladies had pools of skin dangling from their hairlines as well, so I was at least relieved to know that the only thing dying was my youth.

Yes, I am aware that things change as we age, it’s just that I would prefer to defy nature….because I like to set goals that are high and largely unattainable.

Having lost all ability to focus on the original intention of my practice that evening, I settled on a new one.  Trying to force my skin back into its original location by making a series of faces.  This did not work.

Then, I was reminded of the Golden Girls and that episode where Blanche, Dorothy and Sophia are discussing how long each woman waited to have sex with someone new, after their husbands were no longer in the picture.

Dorothy says, “You know, when you’re twenty, everything stays where it’s supposed to.  Now, when you lean over, it looks like somebody’s let the air out of your face.”  

#TRUTH

Dorothy then challenges an incredulous Blanche to look over a mirror and see the effect for herself, which she does with comical results.

Anyway, I’m not sure what to do about this.  I’ve seen too many seasons of The Real Housewives of (insert any city) and the evolution of Kim Kardashian’s face, to go anywhere near Botox.

So, is there some kind of fruit, or plant, or cream I can use that will magically turn back time?   I’m looking for a relatively inexpensive, quick fix.  I’ll even accept a potion brewed by the devil, whatever is going to work.

But if there is nothing that can be done that does not involve a scalpel, or a needle….if I am to accept that this is just the natural order of things….then I guess I’ll have to accept it.

But you can bet your ass I’ll bitch slap the new girl at yoga for my spot back.

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Flashback Friday – The Fiestada….

“I followed my heart and it led me to the Fiestada” ~ Me

Does anyone else out there remember the Fiestada?

If you were a kid in the late 80’s and early 90’s, I’m talking to you.

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The Fiestada was an octagon shaped, little slice of pizza-like heaven.

It had a thin, cardboard crust and was topped with tomato paste? and tiny pieces of hamburger? and yellow cheese? that kind of all melted/congealed/slightly burned together to form a  crispy, but mushy, kind of special goodness.

Had my subsidized school lunch program allowed it, I would have stockpiled my ration all week and blown it all on Fiestada day.

I day-dreamed about how I might score a second helping.  I wished the school would announce a contest for which the grand prize would be a lifetime supply of Fiestada’s.

In the lunch room, I scarfed mine down and then circled the cafeteria like a vulture, hoping a classmate might be willing to share.

Are you going to eat that?  Are you going to eat the whole thing?  What!?  How do you not like Fiestada’s!?  Could typically be heard coming from my salivating, Fiestada juice stained, grubby little mouth.

I loved them so much, that I once asked the lunch lady for the recipe….and she pointed to a long, white, nondescript box with plain black lettering that said, “Fiestada” and then I just assumed they had been made in Mexico, because they were far too exotic to be American fare.

“I’ll go there someday.  I’ll go there and eat my weight in Fiestada’s”  I told myself, because I was not a kid without goals.

Some people have cherished memories of home cooked meals, served round a table full of happy family members in a warmly lit dining room….a fire crackling in the background.

I have cherished memories of linoleum flooring, fluorescent lighting and the heart burn inducing, probably ADD causing, artery clogging, early on-set heart disease producing, special little octagonal round of awesome that was….the Fiestada.

To this day, I am so obsessed with recapturing that precious moment, that I have scoured the internet in the hopes of tracking down my beloved.

I’ve found recipes on Pinterest that claim to be an exact replica of the original, but there was nothing “homemade” about what I ate in those days.

I want the original.

The one that sat in the industrial sized freezer of an elementary school cafeteria, safely wrapped in BPA leaden plastic.

But I don’t think it’s meant to be.  The best I could find was this thing….made with Whole Grains.

And I literally can’t even….

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10 Things I Swore I Would Never Do When I Became A Parent….

“I would rather die than let my kid eat Cup-a-Soup.” ~Gwyneth Paltrow

I admit it.

Before I had a kid, I was 100% one of those judgey, know-it-all jerks who made grand proclamations about all the things I’d never do when I became a parent.

Which was pretty bold considering that, for years, I’d known nothing about raising children.  Like, literally nothing. 

Was it acceptable to put Kool-Aid into a baby bottle?

Did you wait to change a child’s diaper until it had reached maximum capacity?  I mean, diapers are expensive and if you can make a 24 pack last 24 days, that’s practicing good economics….no?

And, it’s not that big a deal to leave a toddler in the car if you’re just running into K-Mart for ONE thing, right?  So long as the kid is strapped down somewhere and unable to reach the lit cigarette resting in the cars ashtray?

What can I say?  I didn’t have the best maternal example.

It wasn’t until books and television taught me that I was basically a degenerate, that I began to form loftier opinions about things.

The police never showed up at the Seaver residence because Maggie was in the backyard with an ax hacking up the lawn furniture after a fight with Dr. Seaver.

Mrs. Walsh, of Beverly Hills 90210 never hissed at Brenda, “I am going to kick your ass so far up around your neck, you’ll have to spread your butt cheeks to sneeze!”

And not one of those chick’s from the Babysitter’s Club, had to take their earnings and immediately spend it all on candy at a sports bar/grocery store called Smokies before their mother could steal their wages.

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Smokies #ICan’tMakeThisShitUp

So, it’s really thanks to the likes of the Tanners, the Camden’s, The Huxtables, Mr. Belvedere and Beverly Clearly, that I became self-righteous AF.

10 Things I Swore I Would Never Do When I Became A Parent

1.   Let my kid eat a hot dog

Fast forward six years:

Me:  Hey Snugs, want to have a hot dog and mac & cheese for dinner?

Snugs:  I had that yesterday!

Me:  I know, but it’s your favorite!

2.  Leave the house in my pajama’s

Post Kids:  Ok, I’ll never leave the house in my PJ’s without a bra.

A few more years post kids:  Well, if I’m staying in the car and just going through the teacher assist drop-off line, it’s not like anyone will notice I’m not wearing a bra.

3.  Let my kid buy school lunch

Me….Every Day:  Oooh, buddy!  French toast sticks are on the menu at school today and tomorrow, it’s nachos!

4.  Allow screen time

A hot minute after giving birth:  Get ready!  To Wiggle!  

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5.  Forego my personal hygiene

Post Parenthood Google Search History:

  • How many days in a row can you use dry shampoo?
  • How many days in a row can a person go without showering before the smell is too great to mask.
  • Is Listerine an acceptable alternative to teeth brushing?

6.  Give-up my corporate career for family

My employer (a year ago):  You haven’t made a career move in five years and we’re going to eliminate your current position.  You’ll need to either move up, or move out.

Me:  Cool, should I go ahead and start packing now?

I know I’m supposed to be leaning-in and pulling up a seat the table and bursting through the glass ceiling and blah, blah, blah, but I was over my career.  OVER IT.

I didn’t want to spend my time traveling all the over the place, working insane hours, while someone else raised my kid, all for the privilege of helping to stuff the already bulky pockets of the executives and shareholders of corporate America.

I decided I didn’t want to pull up a seat their table.  I decided to build my own table.  I’m sorry if this isn’t the choice I was supposed to make.

Actually, no.  I’m not sorry.

7.  Participate in the Elf on the Shelf

Before my son was born, I considered the tradition to be an unnecessarily stressful addition to parenting and the holiday season.

Actually, I think I was just really jealous that I hadn’t thought of that bajillion-dollar idea myself.

After my son was born, I jumped right onto the Elf on the Shelf bandwagon and I’m not getting off anytime soon.

Quite frankly, I participate in the tradition for one person and one person only….and that person is me.

My childhood had all the magic of life at Spahn Ranch with the Manson family, so it makes me feel good to sprinkle my son’s youth with wonderment.

Also, that little Sprite gives me a whole month off from parenting….and I’m not going to lie, I can use the break….especially during the holiday season.

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8.  Formula Feed

To be clear, it never crossed my mind to judge another mother for the way she chose to feed her kid.  If it hadn’t been for Hamburger Helper, Chef-Boyardee and Tang, I might not have survived my own infancy.

So, fed is best, as far as I’m concerned.

But I had a lot of guilt about being diagnosed with cancer while I was pregnant and so I felt like if I couldn’t breastfeed, I would essentially be a worse mother than Susan Smith.

Mom guilt.  Am I right?

I wanted to breastfeed, but I couldn’t.

To make a long story short, my son was born premature, I had to finish chemotherapy and it wasn’t safe for my son to breastfeed while I was pumped full of R-CHOP.

I tried to “pump and dump,” but my body was all, “F-You.  I’m not cooperating.” 

Since starvation is, in fact, the worst of all options, I decided that what was best for my son, was formula.  And what was best for me, was to stop torturing myself.

PS….to that lady from the online La Leche support group I reached out to for advice on stimulating my milk supply, the lady who told me I should really consider stopping cancer treatment because, Breast is Best!

I still know who you are.  My social media stalking skills are on point and oh honey….time has not been good to you.

 

9.  Subscribe to a parenting philosophy

Me, today:  I’m the I Don’t Give a F*ck Mom.

The IDGAF mom is the one who can’t even commit to the long term implications of a bumper sticker, let alone a parenting philosophy.

She’s the one who sometimes feels like she’s got her shit together and other times, get’s stuck in her sports bra.

The mom who roots for other mom’s, (except that bitch from the La Leche support group….I never let go of a valid grudge), because she knows that parenting isn’t actually a competition.

We’re all just doing the best we can to roll with the punches of parenting and life and in the end, we all want the same thing.  Nice kids who are healthy and happy and who go on to be productive and kind members of society.  That’s the only trophy we’re going to get.

10.  Allow my kid to throw a tantrum in public

I really thought I would have this one down.  I assumed that I was the adult, the one in charge.  I thought my firm, but loving approach to child rearing would be thing that would separate me from the mom with the toddler sprawled out and screaming on the floor at Target.

I thought that right up until the time my son was about three and I told him it was time to leave Chuck E. Cheese and he looked at me and said, “Over my dead body.”

Ok, so he didn’t actually say that, but trust me, his wails and feet stamping and fist pounding on the Skee Ball machine made it clear that I could suck it.

So, now I just like to tell myself that he’s strong willed and that strong willed children become adults who change the world.  I high five myself and hope that he’s at least a good dictator someday.

Then, I take another helping of humble pie with a side of crow, pull up my yoga pants and tell myself that, at the very least, I’m still way better than that La Leche lady.

 

Want to Make $1,000 a Day & Never Leave Home?

“I just want to be rich enough to have Morgan Freeman read me bedtime stories.” ~Unknown

Me too!

Please let me know if you have any good leads.

In the meantime, here’s a Meme.

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P.S.  I really just wanted to see how many people clicked on this.

P.P.S  I also really like this Meme.

The Gazelle….

“Running is fun!” ~Psychopaths

About three years ago, I joined a women’s only fitness studio and truly, it changed my life.  I have always enjoyed physical activity, but in the past, I had a habit of joining big gyms, for like five minutes.

Then, I would get super bored, because I didn’t know what I was doing, and then I would quit….four years later….because canceling a gym membership is the tenth circle of hell.

But after I had my son and completed my cancer treatments, my body felt like it had been run over by a truck.  In addition, my anxiety, which had been a minor issue for me all of my life, suddenly started to attack more often and more viciously than it ever had before.

quote-anxietyI talked about it with my doctors and also a therapist I had been seeing for a while.  It was normal and typical for cancer survivors to experience symptoms of PTSD and anxiety.  Medication was an option, but I didn’t feel like it was a good option for me.

I just needed some way to release that energy from my body.  I began to recognize its build up.  I could feel that it was trapped, but I didn’t know how to go about getting it out and it made me feel manic.

On the advice of my Oncologist and my Cardiologist, I decided to start working out again.  Their suggestion was based more on the physical benefits I would get from regular exercise, but I thought maybe it might be a good way to exorcise some crazy while I was at it.

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At first, I bought the book, Fitness for Dummies, thinking it would help me understand how to properly use the equipment at the gym and create a worthwhile routine for myself.  And yes, I could have just asked someone, but no I could not.  (See post, I’m Known as the Death of the Party).

Anyway, I quickly realized that I was just on my way to falling into the same old failed routine I had gotten myself into so many times before.  So, instead, I turned to my community Facebook page for local moms….because if you want to know anything from where to get a good bikini wax, to what that noise was over on Main Street at 4:37am, that’s where you go….and I posted something like the following:

“Hey ladies.  I’m looking to join a new gym.  Somewhere with maybe small group classes and trainers who tell me what to do.  And if they are mean, even better.  I need someone to shout my ass back into shape.  Thanks!”

Within minutes, I began to receive a flood of responses. Eventually, I chose a new, women’s only fitness studio that had been open for just a few months.  I chose them, because I loved their body positive message.

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After my first class, I knew this time would be different.  Exercise has been a game changer for me, both physically and mentally and it’s a literal lifeline I can’t do without. And it was thanks to joining my gym, that I came to know my friend Gazelle.  (I call her this, because she has the body of Gisele, minus the height, and she runs like some kind of prancing, dainty, woodland creature).

Gazelle doesn’t teach at my studio. I know her through a game of six degrees of separation that includes both a personal and exercise related connection.  It was through that combination that I came to attend a cardio-kickboxing class she was hosting to raise money for charity.

The class kicked my ass.  In a good way.   So I began following her around to other gyms, where I take her class as a drop-in whenever possible.  She’s amazing.

Fitness is her full time job.  She has a degree in Exercise Physiology, but instead of working in a clinical setting, she likes to teach.  She gets up most mornings around 4:00am to begin her day, which includes a variety of classes taught at several different gyms.  I’ve seen here around noon-time when she’s already five classes into her day and you’d never know it.

In addition to her workload, she’s an avid runner and she’s constantly trying to get me to take it up.

“Hey, want to go for a run today?  It’s going to be so nice out!”  she texts.

“No.  Running is dangerous.”  I say.

“Running isn’t dangerous! What are you talking about?” 

“Um, have you never seen Dateline?  Or 48 Hours Investigates? There’s like a 90% chance I’ll be murdered.”  I tell her.

“We’ll be together though.”  She says.

“No, we won’t. I’ll quit after three minutes and tell you I’ll catch up. And by the time I’m attacked, you’ll be too far away for me to trip you as a sacrifice to save myself.”  


“Want to go for a run?  The foliage is beautiful!”  She tries again.

“Imagine how much better I’ll be able to see it while walking.”  I say.


“Let’s go for a run today!  Just a short one!”  She begs.

“I’d love to but I can’t.  Oh wait.  No, I wouldn’t love to.”


“Ok, I know you’ll probably say no, but how about you give running a chance today?”

“No.”


“Run?”

“I can’t, I hate it.”  

“Have you ever tried it?  Like REALLY tried it?”  

“Yes, that’s how I know that with every stride, a part of my soul dies.”

“You are so dramatic.”

“I know.”  


“Hey friend, great day for a run!”

“Evolution.”

“What?”

“If God wanted us to run, he would not have killed off the Dinosaurs.”

“That makes zero sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.  Think about it while you’re running today.  Alone.”


I’m just not a runner.

There have been many times I’ve gone out and invested in expensive, top of the line running shoes, devised a training plan and envisioned myself crossing the finish line of the Boston marathon.  But then, I just end up gardening in my expensive, top of the line running shoes and watching the marathon from a bar on Beacon Street.

And I can always tell who the real runners are vs. the people like me who go out thinking, I’m going to pound out some miles and then end up walking three minutes in, because running is stupid.

Real runners seem to glide, their strides steady and light, their facial expressions stoic, their breathing, steady.

When I run, I look like a sack full of rocks being dragged across a bumpy road as I desperately suck wind.  My facial expression says, “This sucks, I’m bored, I hate every minute of this and it’s only been half a block.”

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I will hike for dozens/hundreds of miles carrying a 20 pound backpack up and down mountains for days and I won’t complain, even once.  I will bike ride for hours.  I will Spin and Barre and Booty Build and Muscle Pump and Namaste every day of the week….but I cannot bring myself to jog a lap, let alone a mile.

So I will keep on telling my friend no.  And she will continue to ask.

I will offer to drive alongside her in my car, while she runs.  Promising to shout out inspirational quotes, throw paper cups of water at her and play Eye of the Tiger at the highest volume setting for as long as her little legs will go.

And she will attempt to trick me into running by using words like “fun run” and promising a “yummy lunch” afterward.  And I will tell her that her idea of “yummy” includes a plate of twigs and crab grass and my idea of “yummy” includes cheesecake.

3Ps

Though it probably doesn’t sound like it, I do appreciate her persistence.  I know that it comes from a good place.  She’s rooting me on, because she thinks I can do it.  She has faith in me and my abilities.  Running is a passion of hers and she wants to share it with me.  Motivation is part of her job and she is really good at it.

It’s just that in my case, there is no will to find the way.  But her constant nagging has encouraged me.  I work out harder, because of her.  I push myself every workout and when I think I’m at my max, I push just a little bit more.

But if you ever see me running, you should probably start running too….because chances are, a zombie, or a serial killer is gaining on me.
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Flashback Friday….That Time I Tried Atkins

“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” ~ Kate Moss

Personally, I think her bony ass is full of shit….but, it took me awhile to figure that out.

Throughout my twenties, I did my fair share of fad dieting.  The South Beach Diet, the Cleveland Clinic Diet, Slim Fast and the Hydroxycut and Coffee diet I invented myself.  Which was kind of my take on the Super Model diet (champagne and cocaine), but since I couldn’t afford cocaine, or champagne, I doubled down on the uppers and I’ll be honest, how I didn’t die of a massive heart attack, I’ll never know.

If I could go back in time, I’d just smack the post closing time Taco Bell, taco supreme out of my hand and suggest fewer buttery nipple shooters, in lieu of torturing myself during day time hours.  But, wisdom comes with age, or so they say.

I began my journey of unsustainable dieting after gaining a few pounds at my first office job post college.  I didn’t make a lot of money and so my food options were pretty limited.

Most of the time, I lived off Ramen Noodles, or Spaghetti noodles with butter.  When I had a little extra cash, I bought a few Banquet TV dinners and ninety-nine cent frozen pizza’s.  I ate whatever was cheapest, which meant I mostly ate crap.

The office was relatively small and the owner of the business liked to take us out for lunch a few times a week.  I quickly learned that if I ordered intelligently, I could squeeze several meals out of the leftovers.

This meant, I almost always ordered a hearty pasta dish, since the servings are typically larger compared to that of a salad or sandwich.  I also learned I could steal other people’s leftovers.

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Every Friday, the office supplied bagels from a fancy bagel shop, along with a selection of gourmet cream cheeses.  I took my morning bagel and then casually returned to the kitchenette to snatch up the extra’s for home; hiding them behind piles of paper I had clutched to my chest and in my purse while trying to make it look like I was just on my way to/from the bathroom.

Once, I pulled a container of cream cheese, with approximately one tablespoon of Pumpkin Spice remaining in it, out of the trash….because that’s wasteful and I had no shame.

And then there were the birthday celebrations and the grocery store sheet cakes that came along with them.

After the “party,” I liked to volunteer to clean-up the break room, not because I liked to be helpful, but because I could wrap up the rest of the sheet cake and take it home with me.

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So yeah, it didn’t take long before the one pair of Jaclyn Smith black work pants I owned, started crying at the seams.

One of my co-workers, Ned, a middle aged guy with horribly bad breath, suggested I give Atkins a try.  The fact that a middle-aged man I worked with commented on my expanding waistline, is a whole other thing.

Anyway, he’d been an Atkins devotee for most of his adult life….long before the diet peaked in popularity.

I was immediately lured in by the idea that I could go to McDonald’s, order a whole bunch of cheeseburgers, and all I would have to sacrifice would be the bun.

So….what you’re saying is that I can fry up a package of discount hamburger from Aldi’s, smother it in cheese and eat the whole thing in one sitting?  

I could eat an ENTIRE carton of eggs?

ALL the bacon?

It sounded so easy and I was all about easy.

I never made it to ketosis.

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Shortly after I started the induction phase, Ned was hospitalized with a serious illness that had something to do with his butt-hole falling out.  Apparently, he wasn’t properly supplementing his fiber intake all those years on Atkins and the result was, Butt-Hole Fall-Outis.

I’m sure there was an actual medical term for whatever was happening and I’m sure there was more to the story, but all I heard was “Its like his butt-hole is falling out.”

Even though I didn’t really give much thought to my own butt-hole on a regular basis, it seemed the kind of body part a person would like to keep and so that was enough for me to hop off the Atkins bandwagon….immediately.

On my way home from work, I stopped in at the grocery store for a family sized can of  Beefaroni and a bunch of banana’s, that I began to devour the second I got into my car,  while clenching my butt cheeks together.

But still, it took years of fad dieting and failure, before I discovered that weight loss/maintaining a healthy weight did not have to include suffering and/or the elimination of food groups.

Eventually, I discovered simple calorie counting and for me, it’s made all the difference.  Setting a reasonable and HEALTHY, per day caloric intake….along with exercise….has been key in helping me to maintain a healthy weight.  It’s also significantly improved my overall energy level.

Knowing  that I can essentially eat whatever I want….so long as I stick to my daily goal….helps me make better choices throughout the day (most of the time) and it allows me some slack when I want to indulge….all without sabotaging my efforts and throwing my bodily functions off track.

I’ve also learned a lot about food in recent years….the differences between calories, carbohydrates and cholesterol….and the best way to give my body the fuel it needs to properly function.

But let me be clear….ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, I have written here should be considered, or taken as advice.  I don’t know anything.

I’m a cancer survivor and one of the benefits of that, includes a team of doctors and nutritionists who have given me new insights and instructions regarding my overall health these last six years.  I do what they tell me, because cancer sucked.  And whatever I have to do to prevent getting it again, I’ll do.

But, if you are on the look-out for great recipes that are healthy and don’t taste like cardboard, I am a huge fan of this lady:  Skinnytaste.

I don’t personally know the author at Skinnytaste.  No funds, or food, or favors of any kind have been exchanged for my referencing here here….I just really love her recipes and when I get compliments on her meals, I take all the credit, which is easier to do when you don’t actually know the other person.

Bon apetit!

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I Don’t Know What I’m Doing….and Neither Do You.

“Opinions are like butt-holes.  Everybody has one.”
~Unknown, but I wish it was me

As a mother, I’ve grown accustomed to being on the receiving end of unsolicited parenting advice.

Just the other day, while in the toothpaste aisle at Target, I was accosted by a woman who approached and said, “You shouldn’t choose a toothpaste that contains aluminum.  Unless you want your kid to have Alzheimers.” 

How do you even respond to that?

When I was pregnant, I was diagnosed with cancer at twenty-two weeks.  Once, while shopping, a woman approached and asked, “Don’t you think you should have been more responsible?”  

Throughout my entire illness, I never had a problem sharing my story with curious strangers.  I spent many minutes in check-out aisles and at my doctor’s appointments, chatting it up with random, but kind, strangers, about my diagnosis and how it all came to be.

But this woman?

No.

She was a twat-waffle.

So, I didn’t feel bad when I suggested that she should hop into her douche canoe and row, row, row the boat far away from me….before I did actually make an irresponsible decision.

After I gave birth, I wasn’t able to breast-feed.  My son was born one week before my last chemo cycle.  Although the medications were unable to cross through the placenta while my son was safe and snug inside my womb, they could pass through my breast milk and that wasn’t safe for him.

In the beginning, I tried to “pump and dump,” which I would need to do for a minimum of six weeks after my last chemo cycle, in order to flush out all the poisons.

I tried.  I really, really did.

I followed every bit of advice from the hospitals lactation consultants.  But nothing worked.

My body had been through a lot and it seemed to draw the line at producing breast milk.    I was never able to produce more than about a teaspoons worth, which, admittedly, made me feel like a horrible mother.

As a last ditch effort, I reached out to a La Leche Group I found online.  Now, I’m sure that if you are a regular woman, who is struggling to breast feed and looking for advice, that these groups are helpful.  In my case, not so much.

I explained my situation and for the most part, I got back the same advice the lactation consultants had given me.  In a few cases, some of the women essentially said, “I’ve got nothing, I’m sorry.”

But then, one woman decided to offer me this piece of sage advice.  “You should stop your treatments so you can breastfeed.  It’s really the most important thing you can do for your baby.”

“Um….like, more important than being alive?  Bitch.”

That’s all said.  I might have added in a GFU.

Ok, I did definitely add it in, because who says that!?

And honestly, my experiences with breast-feeding shame didn’t end there.  I found a super expensive, organic formula that made me feel a little bit better about my inability to feed my baby from my own body and I’m not even kidding, but nine times out of ten, when I was at the store purchasing his food, a woman would tell me that breast milk was best.

And you know what?  I agree!  It is THE BEST.  I get it.

But, we can’t all do it and for some, we don’t all want to do it and that’s OK too.  It really is.  Because you know what’s second best to breast?  Fed.

A few years ago, while my son played at an indoor playground, a man asked me, “Aren’t you afraid that letting your son wear a pink shirt will make him gay?”

He asked, as though being gay was a bad thing.

As if I would be all bent out of shape at the prospect of being the number one woman in my son’s life….forever.

As if a child’s preference in color, is indicative of his sexuality.

But, I suppose when you can still recall the smell of the air from the bough of the Mayflower, you can sort of be forgiven for your ignorance.

I am by no means a perfect parent.  There are days I think I’m nailing it and there are days when I wish that life allowed a control z function, so that I could have a do-over….or five.

I appreciate and even love, all those Parenting Blogs that talk honestly about the trials and tribulations of raising children.  It’s nice to find a community of like-minded parents.  But the second they hop on a sponsored soap box and start using words like “should” and “never.”  They’ve lost me.

Because, I’m sorry, Karen, you don’t know squat….unless you have a PH.D in child-rearing, in which case, what you know is still debatable.  Parenting, like everything else, is constantly evolving.

My generation is the first to raise children in the age of social media.  And I think a byproduct of that, is that we’ve lost a bit of our self-confidence and our willingness to trust our gut and our instincts as parents.

It’s so easy to compare ourselves to what other families are doing.  All we have to do, is open up our computers, or our phones and we are immediately transported into the lives of families all over the world, which brings a whole new meaning to the term, “Keeping up with the Joneses.”  

But the truth is, we are all just winging it and hoping we get it right.

Personally, I vaccinate, because Polio seems like a real bitch.

I don’t spank my child, because I got my ass kicked as a kid and from that, I learned only one thing.  That I don’t want to hit my child.

Depending on the circumstances, I’m a helicopter parent.  Other times, I’m that mom, sitting in the corner, reading a book.

Some days, I make homemade, from scratch, wholly organic meals and other days we go through the drive-thru at McDonald’s.

I allow screen time, almost every day.  Some days, it’s no more than hour.  Other days, whatever.

I am at times, authoritative and strict and other times, weak and super permissive.  Most of the time, I’m weak and super permissive.

I’m a big believer in the importance of self-care; for moms and dads.  And sometimes, I prioritize myself over everyone else.  And no, I don’t feel guilty about it.

My house is obsessively clean and organized.  Because my brain needs it to be that way and I have no problem doing all the work.  In fact, I LIKE it.

I have been a corporate career having mom and a stay-at-home mom.  Both are hard.

Sometimes, I let my son win and other times, I wipe the floor with him.

And I don’t care what kind of mom the internet, or the media tells me I should be.

I can’t force him into a specific parenting philosophy.  I know this, because I have actually tried.  But I don’t think he came out of the womb a blank slate.  He was already a person. Predisposed, I guess, to certain personality traits and needs that would and do influence his interests.

So I only care about being the kind of parent my child needs me to be.  And I’m sure I don’t always get it right, but I trust myself to get it mostly right.  Because no one knows him and loves him like I do and nobody ever could.

I’m Known as the Death of the Party….

“I am not a jerk.  I am an introvert and I say fuck a lot.” ~Charles Bukowski

I don’t get invited to a lot of parties.

This is not surprising, because I don’t have a lot of friends.

This is not surprising, because I’m the human equivalent of a turd in a punch bowl.

I don’t necessarily mean to be, but I’m a definite introvert trying to force myself to function like a “normal” person, in a world that is noisy and won’t shut up.  A bi-product of which, is a somewhat bizarre form of what I suppose could be called, social anxiety.  Or, a bad case of chronic, verbal diarrhea.

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When I get blindsided by conversation, you know, normal, friendly small talk, I tend to contribute something like, “Hey, did you know that humans shed forty pounds of skin in their lifetime?” just as you’re about to sprinkle some parmesan cheese onto what used to be your favorite dish.

I once said, ” Well, I hate the Yankee’s” during a professional networking event, in New York, with a bunch of Yankee fans, at YANKEE F*CKING STADIUM, in response to the question, “Do you like baseball?”

And you know what?  I don’t even really hate the Yankee’s.

I’m sure it would be quite nice to be a social butterfly, instead of a wall flower; to be the kind of person who oozes charisma and charm, instead of oozing verbal diarrhea.

But I wouldn’t know.

Unknown.pngI’m attending a wedding at the end of the month and the last time I saw many of the people who will be in attendance, I filled an awkward moment of silence with the following:

“Hey, did you guys know the average fast food eater consumes like 12 pubic hairs a year?”  

I don’t know why that was necessary.  I have no words….also, it was me who caused the awkward moment of silence.
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The thing is, when left to my own devices, I’m just perfectly happy being alone.

It’s not because I’m sad, or depressed, or need to be pried from my shell.  I’m not shy, or lacking in self-confidence.

And it’s not that I don’t like people.  I think people are fascinating, especially from a distance, when they don’t know I’m watching them.

It’s the socializing I don’t love; the small talk and the pressure to contribute to a conversation. I don’t like the pauses, with expectation, waiting for me to share my thoughts, which usually consist of something like, “Every year, 40,000 people are injured by a toilet in the United States.”  Except no one is ever talking about toilets.

I am capable of having regular, deep conversations with my small circle of close friends and family, but take me to any sort of outing where there are large groups of people and shit gets weird, real fast.

When I manage to find a quiet, dark corner where I can lurk in the shadows and just observe and eavesdrop, there is always some do-gooder who tracks me down with a “Why are you over here all by yourself?  Come join us!”

And I think, “Damn-it, Susan, you’re ruining everything!”  

For a long time, I was hard on myself for my shortcomings as a socialite.  It bothered me that nearly everyone else I knew gracefully made their way through parties, networking events, conferences, etc., while I spent my time rehearsing a series of basic social niceties, only to then spend days months obsessing over all the ways in which I still ended up accidentally telling someone her purse was ugly and then insulting her entire family for good measure.

But, I’m pushing forty now and honestly, I don’t care anymore.

This is who I am.

My idea of excellent of customer service is to be completely ignored, until I ask for something….which I will never do.  The other day, I discovered that I can look up a specific product on Home Depot’s website, while in the store, and it will tell me the items exact aisle and bay number, thus forever sparing me an awkward encounter with a store associate.  I am now a lifelong customer of Home Depot….so long as I can continue to get a decent cell signal in their stores.

I have had the same cell phone provider for eighteen years.  Because even if I wanted to break up with them, I don’t want to have to actually initiate the conversation.

But you know what?  Loyalty does it have its rewards, even if it’s unintended loyalty….because I have a seriously good cell phone plan that is so good, they don’t offer it anymore.  I’ve been grandfathered into it with like two other people, because….eighteen years.

I’m that friend who will never answer the phone when you call, but will immediately respond with a text and then tell you I’m somewhere with shitty cellular service.  And of course you’ll know I’m lying, but you know me, so you’ll let it go.

Actually, if we’re really friends, you’ll never call to begin with, unless it’s a true emergency.  Like, you need help burying a body, or something.

Also, if you invite me to your wedding and I look thoroughly confused in every photograph, you’ll know it’s because I’m trying to work out exactly why I needed to include the world vulva, in a conversation with your new mother-in-law and grandmother-in-law.

I know, I know….I sound like a real pain in the ass.  Truly, most of the time, I feel like I’m not worth the effort, but believe it or not, I’m a good friend when it matters most.  *See body comment above.*

I’ll just never be the life of the party.  And I don’t want to be.

When life requires me to people, I will always be that person trying desperately to blend into the wallpaper.  Literally.  I call ahead so I can match my outfits to the décor.

I now have a six-year-old son, who is a first grader, which adds a layer of challenge to my hermit-like aspirations.  He wants to socialize, which means that, by extension, I need to socialize; with other parents at playdates and birthday parties and school events and so on.  And of course, I do these things for him.

But there is also a part of him that is just like me.  He’s dreamy and imaginative and for as long as he’s been able to string a sentence together, he’s declared that he wants to be a writer.

At six, he’s written dozens of very short stories in a little notebook he keeps.  Sometimes the stories have no real beginning, or ending.  Just a thought he worked out and put to paper with an illustration.

Sometimes, when I pick him up from school and I ask him abut his day, he’ll tell me it was good, but he played by himself.  And I’ll ask, “How come?  Is everything OK?”

“Of course, Mommy,” he’ll say.  “I just needed some alone time.” 

And I get it.  So we’ll drive home in a comfortable silence.  Both of us, a little lost in ourselves for a bit.

♥♥

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The Spotty Banana….

hate waste.  Seriously, aside from littering, it’s among my biggest pet peeves.

When I see someone grab 30 napkins for an iced coffee, my blood boils.

When people go through the drive-thru and order a walk-in amount of food, backing-up the line of people waiting in vehicles that are just burning through fuel, I want to go all Towanda on their asses.

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Light pollution makes me want to take a hostage.

Anytime I drive by an office complex or through a major city, all I can see is the draining of resources.

And I hate to admit it, but even my own kids suck at light conservation.  Anytime they travel from one room to another….every….single….light along the way, must be turned on.  Even in broad daylight.

It pains me, deeply, that while I have taught my children many things, I have apparently failed to teach them that the exact same mechanism that provides light, also has the power to extinguish it.

And while I’m on a roll here, riddle me this, bat folks….is artificial lighting really necessary when nature’s light bulb provides hours of natural light?

That’s a rhetorical question.  Turn off the f*cking lights.

Also, people toss so many things that could be repurposed into something useful, or made new again.

Some of my most favorite possessions are things I’ve salvaged from someone’s curbside trash.  I pulled my current deck furniture from a Salvation Army dumpster.

Don’t ask me how I came to be shopping in a Salvation Army dumpster.  It’s not that interesting a story.

Anyway,  I stripped down the set, painted the frames and added new cushions.  You’d never know it had been destined to take up real estate in a landfill for all eternity.

Even my house was a well loved, but deteriorating relic, when my husband and I bought it a little more than two years ago.  It’s a historic, New England, saltbox colonial farmhouse that was built in 1731; before there was a United States, or a Declaration of Independence.

After we bought it, we embarked on an eight month restoration/renovation project with a local contractor.  And we still aren’t done.  Now begins a long list of DIY projects I’ve been tackling one room at a time, as we continue to breath life into this old beauty.

But the thing that really chaps my ass, is the wasting of food.   I mean, come on, there are hungry people, like next door.  Maybe not literally, but you know what I mean.

12.6 million US children are “food insecure,” which is a nicer way of saying, hungry.  Yet, in the US, we waste approximately $160 BILLION dollars in food a year; 150,000 pounds of food EACH DAY.

I think I inherited my focus on minimizing waste from my great-grandparents, who I spent a considerable amount of time with as a kid.  Both grew up on farms in Pennsylvania Dutch country during the Great Depression and they carried the memories of that experience with them for the rest of their lives.  Nothing went to waste; least of all food.

When my grandma cooked, it didn’t matter if she was making food for 20 people or two.  She always knew the exact right amount to make so that there was just enough leftover for supper (lunch) the next day.

At Thanksgiving, every bit of the turkey was used.  After the meat was carved, my grandma would take the carcass and boil it down in a large pot, making broths she froze for later use in soups and stews.

With the bones, we sat around her kitchen table and made jewelry, like wishbone necklaces and ribcage earrings.

Just kidding, I don’t know what she did with the bones.

Anyway, my point is this.  Waste not, want not, ya know?

The other day, I purchased a bunch of banana’s.  And before we managed to get through them, they reached a state of spotty, mushiness that made them unappealing.  When the fruit flies started to circle, my husband asked, “Should we just toss these?”

“Um, have you just met me?” I asked.

Old Spotty Banana Bread Recipe:

  1. Wave the fruit flies away from 2-3 very ripe (aka, spotty and borderline not edible) banana’s.
  2. Preheat oven to 350
  3. Mash bananas with fork until smooth.
  4. Stir in 1/3 cup melted butter
  5. Mix in 1 tsp baking soda and a pinch of salt
  6. Mix in 3/4 cup sugar, 1 large egg (beaten) and 1stp vanilla extract
  7. Mix in 1 1/2 cups flour
  8. Pour batter into greased loaf pan and bake for approximately 50 minutes to one hour.

A Eulogy for my Step-Mom….

“You can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your family.” ~My Step-Mom

A year ago, my step-mom, Cindy, passed away.  She was found on her front porch by her mailman.  She was 58 years old.

I like to imagine she was found in death, like I remember her best in life.  Dressed to the nine’s.  Hair and makeup, perfect.  A Kool Mild cigarette in one well manicured hand and a Cosmopolitan in the other.  Almost like she’d just stepped out of an episode of Mad Men.

In reality, I think it likely looked far more tragic.  And for a woman who prided herself on optics, it seems an exceptionally cruel way for death to have come knocking.

Although she had been my step-mom for nearly 30 years, I learned of her death via Facebook; one cryptic post.

To be fair, I suppose she wasn’t technically my step-mom any more.  She and my dad had divorced a few years prior and in the wake of their divorce, she made it clear that she was divorcing my brother and me as well.

So perhaps, I didn’t deserve to be counted among those who got a phone call with a gentle breaking of the news.  I wasn’t family anymore.

Cindy was a beautiful, funny, vivacious, silly, complicated woman, who was also a drug addict.

It began in the late-90’s, when she was diagnosed with a chronic pain condition in the aftermath of a work related injury to her left arm.  It wasn’t a serious injury, but it required minor, outpatient surgery.  In the months that followed, the pain never lessened.  Instead, it became increasingly more severe.

Once, while at their home for the weekend, I woke up in the middle of the night and found Cindy in the bathroom, sweating profusely.  She looked like she wanted to crawl out of her own body for the pain and she couldn’t stop vomiting.  Her left arm, from her elbow to her hand, was swollen and waxy looking.

When I talked to my dad about it the next day, he said it had been going on for months and no one was able to explain it.  She’d been to doctor after doctor, most of whom suggested it was all in her head.

Eventually, she was properly diagnosed, but not before she began to lose some of the strength and coordination in her left hand, along with her spirit and her interest in life.

After the diagnosis, her treatment included things like nerve blocks, physical therapy, and narcotics; specifically, Oxycodone.  There were other treatment options as well, but over time, she abandoned those for the quick fix of the drug.

Then, there were more drugs; many, more drugs.  Drugs for insomnia, anxiety, depression, different drugs for the pain, etc., etc., etc.

By the time I was an adult, she seemed to have connections in pharmaceuticals….and not the legal kind.  But, she always maintained that her doctors knew what she was taking and she didn’t seem as though she felt she needed to hide anything.  The pills were always in prescription bottles with her name on them, but had I looked closer, I would have noticed the expiration dates had long since passed.

Eventually, she started mixing her meds and washing them down with alcohol.  Then, my brother found a small baggie in their house that contained a white powdery substance.  At first, he thought it was cocaine, but later learned, at a family gathering when Cindy became inebriated, that she’d been grinding up her medications and snorting them.

“My doctor told me to,” she said, “because it helps the medication get into my system faster and then I don’t have to take as many pills.  It’s better for my liver.”

We didn’t believe her, but we didn’t question her either.  There were no staged interventions, or heart-felt discussions about our concerns for her well-being.  We didn’t call a hotline, or the authorities.  We didn’t talk to our dad about it.  We didn’t know what to do, so we didn’t do anything at all.

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Looking back on those days, it was so obvious that she was losing herself and that we were losing her.  Her personality began to subtly and then drastically change. Sometimes, she would wander around in a fuzzy bathrobe and a pair of Ugg slippers, looking disheveled and vacant.  Sometimes, she was mean; very clearly angry with everyone and everything and looking for a fight.

But then, she would sort of snap out of it and she’d be almost back to her old self and we could still see glimpses of the person she’d used to be; impeccably groomed, upbeat and silly.  Maybe she was fine after all, we’d think.

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Cindy had never been able to have children of her own, save for two twin boys she had miscarried late in the pregnancy.  They weren’t my fathers children, they had been conceived when she was married to her first husband.

A few years after the miscarriage, her husband was killed in an automobile accident.  A few years after that, she’d had to have an emergency hysterectomy.

As a kid, I couldn’t understand all that loss.  I just saw her as the kind of aunt and step-mom who never missed an opportunity to shower the kids in her life with fun.

She always came home from the store with an assortment of quirky things.  Like wind up toys in the shapes of animals wearing formal wear, small tubes of slime, glow in the dark Yo-Yo’s and other treasures she’d discovered in some check-out aisle, or when wandering through a Five and Dime shop.

She brought home weird candy that came in tins shaped like coffins, or a toilet.  There were sour elixirs in test tubes and lollipops with real bugs like centipedes and grasshoppers in their centers.

She also always stocked up on the latest National Enquirer, Star, Weekly World News and Sun magazines.  We would all take turns reading, while laughing and seriously debating the truthfulness of the articles.

She introduced us to movies like Hairspray, Killer Clowns from Outer Space, Tommy and many other off-beat flicks we watched on repeat until we had them memorized.

She loved cartoons and on Saturday mornings, we’d lounge around in the living room watching old episodes of the Flintstones, the Jetsons and the Smurfs.

When I was an early teen, she got a job at a factory that made car parts for the now defunct, Saturn automobiles.  She worked a second shift, so that during our extended summer visits with our dad, someone would always be home with my brother and me.

Every morning, we would watch The People’s Court and all the daytime talk shows; Sally Jesse Raphael, Donahue, Montel Williams, Jerry Springer, etc, followed by repeats of Designing Women and the Golden Girls.  

In the evenings, my brother and I would wait for her to come home and while she ate her dinner, we would watch old sitcoms on Nick at Nite, like the Mary Tyler Moore Show, Dick Van Dyke, Rhoda and Laverne and Shirley.

Cindy loved Elvis and Rod Stewart, who she called, “Rod the Bod” and occasionally, she would break out into one of their songs, while doing a little dance and trying to entice our dad, who didn’t dance, to join her, while she giggled and swayed.

She regaled us with tales from her 20’s, that often included stories about dancing her nights away in Disco clubs.

Like the story about the man who approached her one night wearing a silk shirt, with the top most buttons undone, so as to show off his ample chest hair (sexy), and wearing a necklace in the shape of a working stop-light.  She said he walked up to her and switched the light on his necklace from green to red and said, “I saw you from the across the room baby and my heart stopped.”

My brother and I would erupt into shrieks of laughter at how corny and gross it all sounded and she would say, “What!?  That was cool!”

At one point, she had raced American muscle cars at a local drag strip.  She would tell us that when she pulled up to the starting line, wearing a sparkly pink helmet and a rhinestone jumpsuit, the men would laugh.  And then….she’d leave them in her dust.

Cindy loved a good scary story, the quirkier and more paranormal, the better.  Her favorite authors were Stephen King and Dean Koontz.  But as much as she loved to read scary stories, she loved to tell them more.

In the summer, we’d gather around an enormous bon-fire in their yard, surrounded by thick woods, and she would tell us an elaborate story that always had local origins. Inevitably, she would manage to scare us into screams, tears, wet pants….and afterwards, she would laugh until she cried, while recounting how scared we’d been.

She loved the water and for a number of years, she and my dad lived on a lake and we’d spend our weekends on their boat from sun up to sun down.  We’d water ski and tube and read and swim and float.

She knew a million recipes that almost always included a can of some type of Campbell’s soup and my brother and I thought she was the best cook around.

I loved to watch her work in the kitchen and though I was a tom-boy with no interest in cooking, or anything domestic, I would sit on a stool at the counter and we’d chat about anything and everything, while she cooked.

She was high maintenance and a total girly girl, who took a Caboodle case full of makeup and hair products along on our annual, weeklong camping trips and I don’t recall ever seeing her without a glossy red manicure on her perfect fingernails.   “A girl’s always gotta look her best” she would say.

Her hair was naturally curly and she wore it the exact same way, until she discovered Chi flat irons in early 2,000.

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Her personal life and backstory were fascinating to me and she never held back the details.  I could ask her anything and she didn’t hesitate to tell me.

But the questions I should have been asking later in life, I never did.

Her addiction seemed to draw to the surface old, buried wounds from her childhood and her first marriage and the loss of her babies and her inability to have biological children of her own.

And it was addiction that kept her from coping with these things in a healthy way. Instead, she began to dwell and stew in resentment and it wreaked havoc on her mental health and her relationships.

I had always imagined that Cindy would be a funny and quirky grandma for my kids.  I looked forward to sending them to her house for long weekends and hearing all about the Snipe hunt she’d tricked them into and about that time she dated a Vampire.

But addiction took that away long before it was anything more than a hope.  The last years that I was a part of her life were complicated and filled with anger and disappointment.  We didn’t fight directly.  Instead, we didn’t really talk at all, which was worse in a lot of ways.

When I needed her most as an adult, when I was diagnosed with cancer while pregnant, she wasn’t capable of being there for me.  But looking back on all of it, I realize that she might have needed me first and I wasn’t there for her either.

Her addiction was a well kept secret that everyone knew, but no one talked about, except in whispered side conversations.  Instead of calling her out, we all tiptoed around her, hoping we’d just get through things; holidays, birthdays, funerals, weddings and other family gatherings.

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I would find out later that she wasn’t in denial about her addiction.  That she and my dad had many conversations and fights about it over the years.  That she made promises and then tried to hide things and then decided she didn’t have to hide anything and she would do whatever she wanted.

That cycle of acknowledgment, deception and defiance, repeated itself for years.

And then, the marriage imploded and she was gone from our lives.  I was angry with her for letting us go, but I didn’t reach out.  I kept waiting for her to come to me.  To snap out of her addiction.  To realize she’d messed everything up and want to make it right.

I never fantasied that she and my dad would rekindle their romance, but I thought she would want to rekindle a relationship with me.  I thought she would want to know my son and that we would figure out how to forge a new relationship in the wake of our broken family.

I wanted her to tell me she was sorry.

Then, I wanted to tell her about how I had always loved when she introduced me to people as her daughter, because it made me feel wanted and important in a way my own mother never made me feel.

I wanted to tell her that some of the best parts of me as a step-mother and a mother, I learned from her.

I wanted to tell her how grateful I was for the hundreds of wonderful things, both big and small, that she did to make our lives better.

When I became a step-mom, I wanted to tell her that I could now understand how difficult it had been for her at times, and I wanted to tell her thank-you for hanging in there.

I wanted to tell her I loved her.

Addiction doesn’t give you the things you want though and I didn’t understand that until it was too late.

I also didn’t understand Cindy’s kind of addiction. She wasn’t smoking crack, or shooting heroine.

She was taking pills that had been prescribed, at least in the beginning, by her doctor.  I didn’t understand that those pills could have the same hold on her as any other drug.

I thought she could just stop taking them if she wanted to.  Especially when other treatments she tried for her condition, were working and she no longer needed the pills. I thought she was choosing to be a junkie and I hated her for it.

In the end, I never said good-bye to her.  After the divorce, it never occurred to me that I should.  I always expected we would reconnect.

And when she died, I chose not to attend the Celebration of Life her family held.  In part, because my brother and I weren’t mentioned in her obituary and the rejection stung.

For so many years, more than half or lives, we’d been her kids.  She’d witnessed and participated in our milestones.  She’d helped to provide for us, financially and emotionally.  Now, she was gone and it all felt unfinished and permanently broken.

Life goes on though and over the past year, I’ve tried to make peace with all that happened.  And the thing is, I don’t want the final chapter of her story, of our story, to define the whole thing.

It wouldn’t be fair.  Not to her, or to me.  Instead, I’m going to celebrate and remember the woman she was, before addiction took her away.

Goodbye Cindy.  I hope you have found all the peace.
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